"Come on, you fool!" The man took Brett's arm, pulled him deeper into
the dark passage. Brett resisted. "Wait a minute. That fellow ..." He
tried to point.
"Don't you know yet?" The red-head spoke with a strange accent. "Golems
... You got to get out of sight before the--"
* * *
The man froze, flattened himself against the wall. Automatically Brett
moved to a place beside him. The man's head was twisted toward the alley
mouth. The tendons in his weathered neck stood out. He had a three-day
stubble of beard. Brett could smell him, standing this close. He edged
away. "What--"
"Don't make a sound! Don't move, you idiot!" His voice was a thin hiss.
Brett followed the other's eyes toward the sunny street. The fallen man
lay on the pavement, moving feebly, eyes open. Something moved up to
him, a translucent brownish shape, like muddy water. It hovered for a
moment, then dropped on the man like a breaking wave, flowed around him.
The body shifted, rotating stiffly, then tilted upright. The sun struck
through the fluid shape that flowed down now, amber highlights
twinkling, to form itself into the crested wave, flow away.
"What the hell...!"
"Come on!" The red-head turned, trotted silently toward the shadowy bend
under the high grey walls. He looked back, beckoned impatiently, passed
out of sight around the turn--
Brett came up behind him, saw a wide avenue, tall trees with chartreuse
springtime leaves, a wrought-iron fence, and beyond it, rolling green
lawns. There were no people in sight.
"Wait a minute! What is this place?!"
His companion turned red-rimmed eyes on Brett. "How long have you been
here?" he asked. "How did you get in?"
"I came through a gate. Just about an hour ago."
"I knew you were a man as soon as I saw you talking to the golem," said
the red-head. "I've been here two months; maybe more. We've got to get
out of sight. You want food? There's a place ..." He jerked his thumb.
"Come on. Time to talk later."
* * *
Brett followed him. They turned down a side street, pushed through the
door of a dingy cafe. It banged behind them. There were tables, stools
at a bar, a dusty juke box. They took seats at a table. The red-head
groped under the table, pulled off a shoe, hammered it against the wall.
He cocked his head, listening. The silence was absolute. He hammered
again. There was a clash of crockery from beyond the kitchen door. "Now
don't say anything," the red-head said. He eyed the door behind the
counter expectantly. It flew open. A girl with red cheeks and untidy
hair, dressed in a green waitress' uniform appeared, swept up to the
table, pad and pencil in hand.
"Coffee and a ham sandwich," said the red-head. Brett said nothing. The
girl glanced at him briefly, jotted hastily, whisked away.
"I saw them here the first day," the red-head said. "It was a piece of
luck. I saw how the Gels started it up. They were big ones--not like the
tidiers-up. As soon as they were finished, I came in and tried the same
thing. It worked. I used the golem's lines--"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Brett said. "I'm going to ask
that girl--"
"Don't say anything to her; it might spoil everything. The whole
sequence might collapse; or it might call the Gels. I'm not sure. You
can have the food when it comes back with it."
"Why do you say 'when "it" comes back'?"
"Ah." He looked at Brett strangely. "I'll show you."
Brett could smell food now. His mouth watered. He hadn't eaten for
twenty-four hours.
"Care, that's the thing," the red-head said. "Move quiet, and stay out
of sight, and you can live like a County Duke. Food's the hardest, but
here--"
The red-cheeked girl reappeared, a tray balanced on one arm, a heavy cup
and saucer in the other hand. She clattered them down on the table.
"Took you long enough," the red-head said. The girl sniffed, opened her
mouth to speak--and the red-head darted out a stiff finger, jabbed her
under the ribs. She stood, mouth open, frozen.